


not all that glitters is gold

by serenfire



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Colors, F/M, fix it scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1952463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenfire/pseuds/serenfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can’t do this any more. He can’t drive this plane, knowing — <em>feeling</em> — the spot where he clawed at the lab door, metal digging into his chest and squeezing out life as the numbness traveled through his veins as his <em>heart. stopped. beating.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	not all that glitters is gold

**Author's Note:**

> for skyeward week on tumblr (day one - red)
> 
> @anyone I know irl: do not read thanks

He secludes himself in Coulson’s bathroom on the bus when he feels the liquid rising from his gut to his throat. He spews out bile into the toilet, feels the thrum of turbulence under his knees. 

He can’t do this any more. He can’t drive this plane, knowing — _feeling_ — the spot where he clawed at the lab door, metal digging into his chest and squeezing out life as the numbness traveled through his veins as his _heart. stopped. beating._

Ward had always assumed he’d die in battle, because that was what warriors did — whether against a target who had gotten lucky or his own team, if his cover blew at 50,000 feet. 

He heaves himself out of the bathroom, presses shaking fingers over his pulse and feels the irregular beat that reminds him _he’s still here_. (He doesn’t quite remember the last time he was so sure of this.) 

Fumbling with Coulson’s wine cabinet, Ward slices his thumb to the bone and he can hear the heartbeat in the thump of blood rushing out, released from its previous boundaries, free, _shining_. 

Ward grabs a bottle of vodka and spills it onto his finger because alcohol cleans wounds, right? (He doesn’t quite remember the last time he cleaned his wounds; there was never any time for antiseptic.) 

The vodka dilutes the blood on its path down his hand, and it spreads across his tank top as a pink stain. As he gulps down the rest of the bottle, Ward is numb — from the shock, from the half-collapsed death of a used asset. Healing is supposed to hurt, right? (He doesn’t quite remember the last time he felt pain.) 

Peterson barges in without knocking, and Ward chucks the empty bottle at him with … _less_ accuracy than usual. 

“What is _wrong with_ you?” the new and improved asset growls, dragging Ward down the hallway. “You should be piloting us up to altitude!” 

“You’re supposed to be watching Skye,” Ward retorts, vaguely pleased at his ability to one-line while completely wasted. 

“I have a camera feed in my eye. You’re drunk; you can’t _drive_ now. You have a job, Ward. You’re on the clock, and it’s more than your life on the line now.” 

“I can still drive,” Ward hiccups. 

Peterson pushes him against the wall, fingernails digging into the open wounds in his chest. 

Ward is still numb. “You don’t want to do that to me,” he says. “I need to drive, and John will be _pissed_ —” (He doesn’t quite remember John ordered him killed in exchange for the drive.) 

“New plan,” Peterson spits as he drags Ward into the lab. Skye pointedly does not look at them. “You watch her.” 

Ward collapses on Fitz’s old chair as Peterson leaves, and Skye hasn’t stopped typing since they arrived. “You’ve got something on your shirt,” she says, still without looking. 

“Would you like me to take it off?” Ward squints. He smiles at her, trying to recall how this conversation went in the past, what _her_ Ward would have done in this situation. Were they at the flirting stage of their ill-fated office romance the last time he was patched up? 

“No.” 

Well. Skye had never responded like _that_ ; she would always flirt with him for a few more sentences at least, right? (He doesn’t quite remember he killed a SHIELD agent and kidnapped her and now all bets were off.) 

Ward removed his shirt anyway — he could do what he wanted now, right? — and this time Skye looked at him. 

Her glare shattered into something less menacing but just as full of rage as she took in the state of his wound. (He knows what it looks like; had seen it in the bathroom mirror for a second before hugging the toilet. Green-gold bruises interspersed with deep gouges in a complete circle, veins purpling underneath thin skin as they relapsed his life.) 

He brings his tank top to his chest to dab at it, to elicit another emotional response from her, and it comes away with a perfect stain of blood, undiluted by the alcohol. 

“There’s a first aid kit on the shelf,” Skye points. Ward takes the kit down in close proximity to the hacker and pours on antiseptic. 

The wound bubbles, fizzes; attacking any rot or infection that had crept into his veins. It doesn’t mix colors with this clear substance, however, and when he dabs it off again the remaining dollops of glistening color are bright. 

Skye towels his chest off with something sanitized and offers Ward the stitches — all the while, her coded virus spreads poison throughout the Bus’s computers, slipping through the navigation and choking it with a tracking leash. 

They will never quite remember what it’s like to trust again. 


End file.
